


Quarterlife Crisis

by formerlydf



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-08
Updated: 2008-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formerlydf/pseuds/formerlydf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quarterlife crisis is when all your what-ifs, the lives you could have lived, gather and fight about choices you should have made and opportunities you shouldn't have missed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quarterlife Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted [on LJ.](http://formerlydf.livejournal.com/111187.html)]

A midlife crisis, everyone knows, is when middle-aged guys feel insecure, have affairs, and buy really expensive cars. Midlife crises are pretty well-known, as crises go.

What don't get talked about are quarterlife crises, mostly because they're a little different. A quarterlife crisis is when all your what-ifs, the lives you could have lived, gather and fight about choices you should have made and opportunities you shouldn't have missed. They're a little less expensive than midlife crises, and a hell of a lot more interesting.

-

The room is completely chaotic. Patrick sighs and rubs his temples, tugging his hat a little further down on his head. Two paint-splattered Brendons are drawing all over the walls. An emaciated Brendon wearing skintight jeans is huddled in a corner, looking warily at any other Brendon who comes too close. A Brendon carrying an accordion and a Brendon with an unlit cigarette are arguing furiously, their hands flapping in the air.

Patrick takes a deep breath. "QUIET!" he yells at the top of his voice. Shocked, all the Brendons turn and stare at him. "Better. You guys aren't going to get anywhere if you're just yelling at each other all the time. I'm in a band, and I'm a producer. Trust me on this one."

The Brendons are still staring, some suspiciously and some curiously. Patrick surveys the room and sees a few Brendons that make him sigh. "Never been born Brendons and dead Brendons might as well leave right now. I mean it." A glow of light by the wall disappears, as do several coffins. "And —" Patrick looks at the terrified Brendon in the corner. "Who are you?"

"Um." Brendon wraps his arms around himself, looking uncomfortable to have so many eyes focused on him, even if they're technically his eyes. "I'm the Brendon who got kicked out and became a prostitute."

"What —" Patrick begins, before deciding that no, he really doesn't want to know. "No. No prostitute Brendons, no —" He catches sight of a Brendon who's playing with a ball of glittering light, tossing it from hand to hand as one of the paint-splattered Brendons watches in awe. "What is that, magic? No. I don't care how cool it would be, no magic Brendons. No girl Brendons. No traumatized or suicidal Brendons, either."

The prostitute, magician and female Brendons disappear, as well as a couple other Brendons who had been at the center of the room, laughing with each other. It just figures that the happiest-looking Brendons would be the depressed ones, doesn't it.

Patrick looks at the rest of the room. It's a little bit less crowded now, which is a relief. He's assuming that they all know who he is, since they're technically a part of Brendon's subconscious, but just in case, he says, "Okay, so I'm Patrick. You know what's going on, right?"

"Quarterlife crisis!" a scholarly-looking Brendon shouts out, and various other Brendons nod.

"Alright. I'm mediating, since trust me, otherwise you'd never get anything done," Patrick tells them.

One of the Brendons is sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall. He asks, "Well, what happened at your QC? Who mediated?"

"Nobody did," Patrick says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Pete's serial killer what-if came in and killed all my what-ifs that weren't in the band." There's a ripple of laughter at that, some of it a little nervous, and Patrick adds, "Don't worry, the what-if killed himself right after. He won't be coming in here. We don't have any serial killer Brendons, do we?"

One Brendon, his hair covering one eye, coughs sheepishly. "Um..." The Brendons around him back away.

"Out," Patrick says, flapping a hand to shoo him away. "No serial killers, no — God, please no vampire Brendons." The serial killer and a couple of other suspiciously toothy Brendons disappear. "Alright, anyone else? Anyone? No? Good. Sit down."

He sits down on the floor and waits for the rest of the Brendons to follow his example. The already-seated Brendon grins at him and says, "We should totally do some sun salutations now."

Patrick blinks. "A yoga teacher, really?"

Yoga Brendon laughs. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Seriously, being able to put your legs behind your head really comes in handy sometimes."

Several other Brendons laugh and high-five him, but one Brendon makes a face and says, "Gross." Patrick recognises him — well, obviously, all of the Brendons are pretty recognisable, seeing as they're all the same person, but this is one of the Brendons who had looked at Patrick suspiciously.

"What's wrong?" Patrick asks.

"Having sex with other men. Sex is meant for a man and a woman, after marriage." He rolls his eyes. "Obviously."

"So you're..."

"The Brendon who stayed with his family and with religion," Brendon says, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks at Patrick. "And don't even think about getting rid of me. Do you know how many times He wonders what would have happened if He had gone my way? I'm probably stronger than any of these what-ifs."

"Please," a Brendon scoffs. There's nothing terribly distinguishing about him, except for his crazy haircut and the pair of shears he's playing with. This must be one of the hair stylist Brendons, Patrick thinks absently. It looks like there are a few of them scattered across the room; they're mostly looking at religious Brendon's hair and fingering their scissors. "There's no way you're happy."

"You think so?" religious Brendon asks. "I'm working with my dad. I see my family all the time. I've got a wife and two kids —"

All the other Brendons burst into laughter. "What, did you sleep with her exactly twice?" the accordion-carrying Brendon asks. "Is there anyone else in the room who really wants to touch a woman, let alone sleep with her every night?"

A Brendon wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt coughs. "Um, I'm the what if Brendon had been straight."

Every single Brendon, except for religious Brendon, shouts, "OUT!" He disappears, looking ashamed. Patrick's kind of amazed; he had thought that a straight Brendon was less possible than the magician Brendon.

"Brendon," Patrick says, looking at the religious Brendon. "Are you actually happy?"

He laughs. "Of course I am!"

"Liar!" at least three other Brendons shout. "You can't lie to yourself!"

"At least not to your subconscious," yoga Brendon says, stretching slowly. One of the paint-splattered Brendons grins at him flirtatiously. Patrick decides not to remark on it.

He turns his attention back to religious Brendon. "Maybe the real Brendon thinks about it a lot, but why would he decide that he should have gone with an option that would make him miserable?"

"Hey, does anyone know where Brendon as-is is, anyway?" religious Brendon demands desperately, looking a little choked by his shirt collar. "Isn't he supposed to be here pleading his case?"

"Stop avoiding the question," scholarly Brendon says, frowning. "Just admit it."

"It's the first step," agrees a Brendon wearing a "Gerard Way Saved My Life" shirt.

"No alcoholic Brendons," Patrick tells him absently.

"Former alcoholic! I learned so much!" Brendon protests as he fades away. "And the point still holds!"

"He's right," a non-descript Brendon says. There's a music note on his brightly-colored t-shirt; that will work as an identification. It's so hard to distinguish between people when they all look exactly the same. "Admit it."

"Admit it!" shout the hair stylists, in unison.

"Admit it!" accordion Brendon shouts, with scholarly Brendon chiming in a second later. Soon, all the Brendons are shouting it — the ones in costumes, in t-shirts and jeans, in lab coats, in spandex, in ruffled suits, with crazy hair, with piercings, with paint-covered clothes. "Admit it! Admit it! Admit! Admit! Admit! Admit!"

"Fine! I'm not happy!" religious Brendon shouts, and immediately stares, his eyes wide. "Oh god. I'm not happy. I'm not happy. I'm the wrong choice!" He disappears in a flash, leaving the room oddly silent.

"Well," music note Brendon says cheerfully, "that went well." He catches the odd looks a few other Brendons throw him and protests, "What? I teach at an elementary school, okay? It's my job to be positive!"

"Hey, I teach at an elementary school too!" one of the paint-splattered Brendons says. They reach across a business man Brendon to high five.

Patrick looks around curiously. "Can I get everyone to go around and say what they do? No names needed, obviously."

"Well, you know what I do," yoga Brendon says, grinning.

"Probably what I do, too," another paint-splattered Brendon says, raising his hand. His clothes are a little tighter than art teacher Brendon's are, and he's wearing a necklace with a heart on it. "I'm an artist, duh. Multimedia."

"Actor," a costumed Brendon says. It explains why he's wearing a toga, Patrick thinks, although he can't exactly say that Brendon as-is _wouldn't_ wear a toga.

"Gymnast," says one of the Brendons in spandex. One of, as in he's not the only Brendon wearing spandex. There are, in fact, two others.

"Ballerina," the second spandex-wearing Brendon says, smiling innocently, and the third adds, "Modern dancer. Come on, have you seen His backflip?"

"Sound tech," another Brendon tells them all, a pair of headphones hanging around his neck. He grins. "I joined tech instead of band in 9th grade."

"Composer," one Brendon explains. He has ink all over his hands, and it smudges onto his face when he reaches up and brushes a lock of hair back. "Mostly for musicals and movies."

The list goes on and on and on. The Brendon in the frilly suit is a wedding singer; the one in the lab coat is a forensic analyst. There are three hairdressers, a bartender, a therapist, a personal stylist, a photographer, an artist's model, a studio musician, a pediatrician, a math geek ("What?" he demands. "People who are good at music are usually good at math, so..."), a music journalist, a Brendon trying to become a music history professor, a linguist (he learned Arabic to read the original Aladdin, apparently, and it just spiraled from there), a classical piano player, a fencer. The Brendon with the accordion plays in a polka-ska-jazz fusion band, which Patrick is both intrigued and a little scared by. There are Brendons who went to college and Brendons who didn't, Brendons who got kicked out and Brendons who stayed on good, if occasionally strained terms with their families. There are Brendons who have broken with their families completely.

"Okay, okay," Patrick says, shaking his head. He never had to go through this, mostly because his what-ifs were all dead before they really had a chance to talk. Which actually reminds him — "Hey, where _is_ Brendon as-is? He should be here by now."

"No clue," fencer Brendon says, shrugging.

Patrick just shakes his head. Of course Brendon would be late to his own quarterlife crisis. Oh, well; Patrick has questions he wanted to ask, anyway. "So, none of you are religious anymore?"

Dozens of heads shake in unison, black hair flopping all over the place.

"Alright, show of hands. How many of you are involved with music?" All of their hands go up, and Patrick stares. "All of you?"

"Not professionally or anything," yoga Brendon explains. "But I still have my guitar, and I sing along to the radio."

"I have more CDs than clothes," one of the hair stylists says.

"I bet even the married guy was in the choir," the businessman adds.

All of a sudden, all of the Brendons are talking over each other to explain how much they still love music, and Patrick has to shout, "Enough!" before they shut up. After a second he asks, "So how many of you quit Panic?"

Crickets practically chirp. None of the Brendons raise their hands.

"Wait, that's not possible. There must be one Brendon who dropped out and became a hairdresser, at least."

He looks at one of the hair stylists, who raises his hands defensively. "Don't look at me, dude. I never joined in the first place."

"None of us did," yoga Brendon says, looking at Patrick. "Maybe some of us knew Brent, and maybe he even asked some of us to come try out for his band, but none of us ever did."

"It's not in His subconscious," therapist Brendon says, scribbling something on a notepad. Patrick highly suspects that he's doodling. "Once He joined the band, there was really no other choice."

"Huh," Patrick says. Apparently in Brendon-speak, "Huh" means, "Feel free to dissolve into chaos again," because that's exactly what the Brendons proceed to do.

With a sigh of relief, one of the hairdressers heads over to math geek Brendon and holds up a pair of shears threateningly, saying, "I don't know who the hell let you think that _that_ was actually attractive, but they were completely wrong." Personal stylist Brendon, meanwhile, is studying sound tech Brendon critically, shaking his head. "It shocks me that I could have such terrible fashion taste," he says, making a face.

Yoga Brendon and art teacher Brendon are flirting in one corner, which isn't as disturbing as Patrick thinks it really should be. It helps that they're so adorable; they keep on blushing and looking away at the same time, only to glance up with the exact same happy smile.

Photographer Brendon and artist's model Brendon have skipped the flirting and are already making out against the wall, while therapist Brendon talks to bartender Brendon about what it is about their brains that makes the Brendons want to have sex with each other.

Actor Brendon and ballerina Brendon are staring at each other challengingly; actor Brendon says, "West Side Story."

"The Swan Princess," ballerina Brendon counters, sliding into a split.

"Rent."

"Sleeping Beauty."

"Hairspray."

"Schezerade," ballerina Brendon says. There's a moment where they both look at each other, and Patrick thinks he knows what's coming —

"We should do Aladdin!" both of them shout at the exact time, immediately turning and running over to composer Brendon. Their words trip and fall over each other and Patrick can't understand what the hell they're saying, but composer Brendon has no problem following it — well, of course he doesn't. They immediately settle into a corner and starting plotting.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Brendons are all arguing over which one of them is the better choice. Obviously Brendon either gets along with himself like a house on fire or fights with himself incessantly. This should really be more surprising, but Patrick watched Pete's quarterlife crisis. Pete has the most complicated relationship with himself of anyone Patrick has ever met.

"I'm helping little kids!" music teacher Brendon shouts. "Obviously I'm the best one! My students think I'm the coolest teacher ever!"

"Please," studio musician Brendon scoffs. "I've played backup for Madonna and the Rolling Stones. I have the best job ever."

"Yeah, but have you ever made someone cry just from giving them an amazing haircut?" one of the hair stylists demands. "I have skills, dude. Mad, mad skills."

"I solve crime!" lab rat Brendon yells out.

"I played Carnegie Hall," classical pianist Brendon says smugly. "Top that."

"Learning every single thing about music ever," music TA Brendon tells him. "There. Consider yourself topped."

"That's what he said," hair stylist Brendon says, laughing. He and music teacher Brendon high five each other.

"Like you've never wanted to sing at a wedding?" wedding singer Brendon demands. "My life is awesome, seriously."

"My life is better!" music journalist Brendon tells him, and then the rest of the arguing Brendons have to say that no, _their_ lives are better, and all the Brendons are getting louder and louder and harder and harder to hear.

"No, mine —" "Don't be —" "Like anyone would ever —" "Stupid!" "Fuck you!" "Fuck you sideways!" "Fuck you _without lube_ , okay —" "Mine —" "Shut up!" "I am —" "You're not —" "Don't kid yourself —" "Please, don't even —" "What the hell?" "Just stop —" "You know what, fuck you with two dildos _and_ without lube —"

All of a sudden, a door opens up in the previously blank wall, and yet another Brendon steps through. This one, though, Patrick recognizes immediately. It's the Brendon he's been with on tour and in studios, the Brendon who he first met in Pete's hot tub when Brendon was seventeen. This is Brendon as-is. Immediately, the entire room goes silent.

"Sorry I'm late, guys," he says easily, smiling apologetically. "I was busy having sex with my bandmates. What'd I miss?"

It stays quiet for another second, and then studio musician Brendon says, "Fuck it, I can't compete with that. I'm gone." He disappears in an instant.

"Us too," yoga Brendon agrees, grabbing art teacher Brendon's hand as they vanish.

In about a minute, all of the Brendons besides Brendon as-is are gone. Brendon as-is stares. "Well, that was easy," he says after a moment.

Patrick can't help but laugh as he prepares to leave. "I guess that means you're meant to be exactly where you are, having sex with your band."

"Well, yeah," Brendon agrees, grinning at Patrick. "Come on. Was there ever really any doubt about it?"


End file.
